


Forever Young

by Morgana



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-20
Updated: 2011-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-17 04:16:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgana/pseuds/Morgana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary loved John, her boys, and Bob Dylan. John gave her the boys, and she gave them her favorite Dylan song to see them through the hard times that nobody could know were coming. As the boys grew, the song would bind them together and seal their fates in ways Mary never could've imagined...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, thank you to my amazing artist alteredloc, who produced such incredible beauty that I'm hard-pressed to stop staring long enough to post. She gave me feedback that really buoyed me up and was hard at work on the art right up to the last minute, and it shows - SO gorgeous!
> 
> Next, to bewaretheides15, who beta'd for me in an astonishingly short time, doing her best to reign in my wayward commas and run-on sentences with a ruthless hand where needed. She is one of the queens of smut, so I knew things were good when I got 'HOT!' from her...
> 
> And finally, thanks to liamelessar, who came up with the whole idea for this Big Bang and kicked me in the rear until I agreed to do it, then supported me through my various breakdowns while I tried to bring this together. Thanks to him, I have my first solo full-length Supernatural story - and it's finished, to boot! It's been a wonderful experience, one I'm very glad I didn't miss out on.
> 
> Okay, all that said... on to the story!

John Winchester wasn't surprised to find the house dark and still when he pulled into the driveway. It had been like that for months now, ever since the accident. Five seconds. That was all it had taken for their lives to change forever. If they'd gone through the intersection just five seconds earlier or five seconds later, they'd be fine, but they'd been passing through during the same five seconds that a drunken idiot was barreling down the road. John and Mary had both survived, but their daughter... their precious unborn daughter, hadn't been so lucky.

They'd named her Mary, after her mother, and laid her to rest between her grandparents in Stull Cemetery out near their farm. It had been a dreary grey day when they put her in the ground, just like all the rest that followed. Theirs was the only house on the block not decorated for Christmas that year; neither of them very into the spirit of peace and giving that season. New Year's Eve had come and gone, and slowly January gave way to February, but Mary remained mired in a deep depression that didn't seem like it would ever lift. She spent her days out at the cemetery or in the nursery, rocking in the chair and staring blankly at that damn angel statue for hours on end. John sometimes wondered why she wanted the thing around - the angels certainly hadn't done a thing to save their daughter. But Mary seemed to find comfort in it, as much comfort as she found in anything, at any rate, and wouldn't let him touch it.

Just like she wouldn't let him touch her.

They hadn't shared a bed since the funeral and John had started to feel like he'd lost his wife right along with his child in that accident. He used to come home to music playing and Mary dancing barefoot around the kitchen while she made dinner, used to sweep her up in his arms and kiss her hello and feel like his world was perfect, but all that was gone. He'd been making his own dinner for months now, suffering through burned and raw attempts at cooking, and he hadn't had one of Mary's homemade pies in ages. Worst of all was the lack of music and light and laughter in their previously happy home.

But hopefully his Valentine's present to Mary would bring them all back. He threw the car in park, turned the ignition off, and carefully scooped his very special gift up. "Shhh," he whispered when big eyes blinked sleepily up at him. "We're home now, but you gotta be quiet. Wouldn't want to ruin the surprise, now, would we?"

He held his breath for a minute, waiting to see what the reaction was going to be. Thankfully, his warning seemed to be understood, because the eyes that had been looking at him slid closed again. Shifting the small bundle, settling it a little more comfortably in the crook of his arm, he headed inside, not even bothering to call out for Mary before he started up the stairs.

Just outside the nursery door, he paused. "Mary? Mary, I know you're in there. Do me a favor and close your eyes, okay?"

"What - John, why do I have to -"

"C'mon, for me?" he coaxed, dropping his voice to the velvet rumble that hardly ever failed to get him what he wanted. "I have a surprise for you, and I promise it's a good one. Humor me?"

There was a soft sigh from inside, and then, "Okay."

He stepped inside and took a minute to appreciate how beautiful she was - even worn and pale with grief, she was the most gorgeous woman he'd ever seen, and he told himself yet again that he was the luckiest man in the world. A squirm against his arm told him he didn't have long before his surprise gave itself away, and he hurried over to the rocking chair, kneeling down beside it to transfer the small weight from his arms to hers. "Open your eyes," he said softly.

Mary glanced down, then over at him, but her attention was quickly returned to the baby that John had just placed in her arms. Blue eyes were staring up into hers and she sighed, "Oh, John..." But although her words were for her husband, her focus was completely on the baby. "How did you -?"

"I made a few calls and got a lawyer to help us out," he told her. No need for her to know that he'd essentially bought the baby in her arms, or that the firm he'd hired wasn't exactly known for avoiding legal loopholes. "He was born January 24th, and he's ours, Mary. We just have to fill out the adoption papers with his name and sign them, and he's ours."

One finger stroked over a baby-soft cheek. "A boy," she murmured, and John knew he'd done the right thing in asking for a boy, even if it had cost them a little more. "What do you think we should call him?"

John thought about it for a second, then suggested, "How about Samuel, after your dad?"

Mary made a soft noise and shook her head. "He doesn't look like a Sam. But maybe... maybe Dean? After Mom?"

"Dean," he repeated, smiling as he watched his wife growing more like herself with every moment that she held the child. "Dean Winchester. I like it." He reached over to run a thumb across the baby's forehead. "Welcome to the family, Dean."

They sat in silence for a few minutes until Dean stirred, turning his face into Mary and fussing softly. "He's hungry. John, could you -?"

John smiled and got to his feet, kissing his wife on top of her head. "Be right back," he told her. He went down to the kitchen to heat a bottle of milk, grateful now that Mary had made him learn some of the basics about baby care.

Once it was warm, he tested it on his arm and carried it back upstairs, where Mary was rocking their new son and singing quietly to him. "May you grow up to be righteous, may you grow up to be true..."

John smiled and passed her the bottle, waiting until she finished the song before he asked, "That sounds familiar. What is it?"

"It's a Dylan song," she said absently, kissing Dean's forehead and cooing to him.

"Oh yeah." John only vaguely remembered hearing it on the radio a time or two; to be honest, if it wasn't CCR or Johnny Cash, he didn't care that much about music, but now he found himself listening to it as Mary started singing again, thinking that it was a perfect song to welcome a child into the world. He told himself he'd have to learn it, but for right now he was quite content to lean in the doorway of the nursery and watch his wife feed their son.

Yes, Dean was just what Mary needed to help her heal. John made a mental note to call the lawyer tomorrow and thank him again for his help. Holland had gone out of his way to make sure they got this baby, pulled all sorts of barely-legal strings to put them at the top of the list, and John wouldn't forget what he'd done for them anytime soon. He thought about what Holland had said when he'd called to tell him the boy was his, that it was as though they were meant to have him, and decided that he'd been right. Maybe Mary hadn't been so wrong with her insistence that angels were watching over them, after all; right now, John felt sure that their family was blessed and that the dark days were gone for good.


	2. Chapter 2

"Daddy, Sammy's crying again."

John didn't look up from his journal when the small voice called out from the doorway. "I'll be there in a minute, Dean." He needed to get the details of his latest find down before he forgot.

Dean didn't answer, but when John glanced over at the door, he was gone. Back to the room he and Sammy shared, most likely - Dean didn't like being too far away from his brother at the best of times, and especially not when Sammy was upset. That was going to be a problem when he started school in the fall - one more thing to worry about, to add to the endless list of problems that came with being a single parent. John laid his pen down and sighed, pushing himself away from the table.

A quick check of the clock showed that it was later than he'd expected. He'd missed dinner - again. Swearing under his breath, he filled a pot with water and set it on the stove. Luckily, Dean never seemed to get tired of spaghetti. Once the water was on, he started preparing Sammy's bottle, mixing the powdered formula with warm water, shaking it well and testing it against his arm automatically.

He headed down the hall to the room the boys shared, smiling as he realized that Sammy's cries were already dying down. Dean's magic touch at work again. John opened his mouth to call Dean over and give him the bottle, but then he heard just how his son was calming his brother.

"May your hands always be busy, may your feet always be swift..." It was barely recognizable, tuneless in the way most children's singing was, but it was unmistakably Mary's song, the one she used to sing as a lullaby when she had first Dean and then Sammy in her arms.

Oh, God. Mary. What did Mary think, watching him with her boys? John was fairly certain she wouldn't be happy if she knew how often meals were late or even sometimes skipped altogether, how seldom vegetables were served, or how often Dean fed Sammy, not as a special 'older brother' treat like he had when Mary was alive, but as part of his daily routine. It was just that Sammy would eat easier for Dean, just like he slept easier with Dean beside him and smiled easier when it was Dean playing with him. And Dean was so enthralled with him, had been ever since they'd brought him home from the hospital, so John had drifted into the habit of letting Dean do far more than he probably should.

"Daddy?" John looked down into his son's face, and the sight of those green eyes, turned up to him so trustingly, made him feel more guilty than he could imagine. "I can give Sammy his bottle if you want."

He forced a smile but shook his head. "That's okay, champ. You've got your own dinner to eat when it's done cooking." Ruffling his hair, he asked, "How's spaghetti sound?"

"Great!" Dean's grin sent warmth rushing through him. "Can I share with Sammy?"

John frowned when he realized he didn't know if spaghetti was an okay food for babies. He'd skimmed through a magazine last week in the grocery store and it said Sammy was old enough to start eating solids, so John had been giving him pieces of his toast in the morning, but nothing about spaghetti had been mentioned. Still, Sammy loved the toast, if the way he squealed and gummed it to death was any indication, and he'd eaten some of Dean's eggs the other day, so he guessed it couldn't hurt. "We'll see. He might not be hungry for it after his bottle."

The answer seemed to pacify Dean, because he nodded and bounced back into the room. John could hear him telling Sammy all about the spaghetti that would be waiting for him when he was done with his bottle, and how Dean would share some of his with him. He followed Dean in and scooped Sammy up, kissing his forehead automatically before he settled him against one arm and offered him the bottle. "Here you go, little man." It was accepted immediately, Sammy latching on hungrily, grunting softly while he fed.

"Wow, he's really hungry!"

He smiled down at Dean. "Well, he's probably growing again." As if on cue, Dean's stomach rumbled and John chuckled. "Sounds like Sammy's not the only hungry one. What do you say we go get that spaghetti started?"

"Yeah!" Dean bounced on his toes and took off for the kitchen like a shot, leaving John to follow behind him. Sammy had his bottle half-finished by the time he made it into the kitchen, and despite his good intentions, John ended up handing him off to Dean while he put the spaghetti in the pot to cook. He watched his five-year-old son jostle his baby brother around like a pro, patting his back to bring a burp up before he settled him back down in his lap and started feeding him the rest of the bottle, and forced his guilt down in favor of making sure the spaghetti was getting properly cooked.

Dean chattered away to Sammy while John moved around in the kitchen, getting the strainer out of the cupboard, retrieving butter from the fridge, and taking plates and silverware out. He listened with half an ear to the childish monologue, all about the things they were going to do when Sammy was big enough, the same things Dean had said ever since he first laid eyes on his brother, and for half a second, life seemed almost normal again. Except that Mary wasn't going to walk in and take Sammy out of Dean's arms or come slip under his arm and watch the boys with him. John took a shaky breath and concentrated on the pasta, fighting a lump in his throat as he scooped a few strands out of the water and bit into one to see if it was done yet.

"... and there's a big dog that plays there sometimes, but you won't have to worry about him. I'll take care of you, Sammy. That's what big brothers do," Dean assured the baby in his arms.

Big brother. The words hit John like a sledgehammer. He and Mary had always intended to tell Dean about being adopted when he was older, but now he had to wonder if that was really the best course of action. Something was after them, something he only vaguely understood, but he knew it was important to keep Sammy safe. Whatever had killed Mary had wanted Sammy too, and John wasn't about to let it have him. But if he was going to hunt this thing down, he'd need Dean's help to watch after Sammy and protect him. He'd need to watch him with a brother's devotion... a true brother, not an adopted one.

Would it be so wrong to keep it to himself? Aside from the lawyer who'd handled the paperwork, John and Mary had been the only ones who knew Dean wasn't born to them. Mary had always said he was theirs in every way that mattered, so surely it couldn't hurt to add one more way to the list, right? John didn't give it much more thought before he made his decision. It was for the best, to keep both his boys safe and with him; he'd get rid of the papers, burn them to make sure they were gone for good.

"Daddy, is the spaghetti ready?" He pulled himself out of his thoughts to see Dean looking hopefully at him.

 _Way to go_ , he mentally scolded himself. _Starve him, why don't you?_ "One second, kiddo." John took the pot off the heat and drained it quickly. A little bit of butter, and he set the bowl in front of Dean, who stared at it for a second, then slowly started to eat. It was only then that John realized he'd forgotten the sauce. Great. How had Mary done it? Two kids and John, not to mention a whole house to care for, and she'd always made sure dinner was on the table on time. It was all John could do to keep the three of them fed.

He told himself yet again that he'd do better, be a more involved father once they were settled down in a new home. They'd find a place to live that was better than the dingy little apartment he'd taken to get them through the winter and John would learn to cook and make sure Dean had clean clothes for school, no jeans with ripped knees or stained T-shirts. Sammy would learn his ABCs, and John would learn to go on with life. At least, that's what he hoped, but deep inside he recognized that none of that was possible, not until the thing that had killed his wife was dead. Then there would be time to go to Dean's Little League games and teach Sammy how to throw a perfect spiral pass. He just had to do this first.

Taking Sammy from his brother, John settled him on one knee and turned back to his work, making notes in his journal and trying to piece it all together. The sooner he could figure this out, the sooner they could put all of it behind them.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam was asleep by the time Dean got home, sprawled on the couch in a tangle of long legs and outthrown arms. He'd obviously just come back from his evening run, because he hadn't even bothered to put a shirt on, just dropped down there in his jean shorts and passed out. Dean shook his head as he stared down at him, eyes drifting over the lean form, lingering a little on the expanse of his chest, a thin film of sweat still shining on the skin. He wanted to do all kinds of things to that skin, wanted to lean down and lick him clean, taste sun and sweat and Sam sharp on his tongue before he moved down over his stomach...

No! Sucking in a swift breath, Dean turned and stalked back to their bedroom, doing his best to ignore the way his dick was stirring, starting to press against his fly. He told himself it was wrong for about the millionth time, even as one hand drifted down to ease his swelling erection into a more comfortable position. But he knew it was a losing battle, just as it had been from the start.

He still wasn't quite sure what it was that had caught his attention, but four or five months ago, Dean had looked at Sam and for the first time seen not his geeky little brother, but a mouth-watering young man. He was taller than Dean now, his body showing the first signs of the young god he was going to be someday, starting to fill out but still slim-hipped and slender enough to pick up and shove against a wall and -

A faint moan broke free as Dean ground the heel of his hand against his dick, then immediately yanked his hand back once he realized what he was doing. God, he was sick! He had to stop, had to quit thinking about Sammy like that, imagining him writhing against Dean, face flushed and eyes glittering, whimpering and begging for more. It was all Sandy's fault, he told himself. If she hadn't mentioned his brother when they were making out, he never would've noticed. They'd been going at it hot and heavy in the back of the car, her sweet little pussy rubbing over his dick, just jeans and panties separating them, when she'd leaned in and breathed in his ear, whispering about how hot his little brother was getting...

Dean bit his lip, his hand squeezing his dick almost viciously as he remembered the things she'd teased him with, the possibility of deliberately letting Sam catch them, of inviting him to join them, jerk off on her tits while Dean fucked her, or eat her out afterward. He'd come in his pants at that, shot off in his jeans like he was 13, too worked up to hold back just thinking about Sam licking his come out of her. After he'd fingered her until she shook and moaned above him, he'd driven her home and ignored her calls until they'd left town, but the images she'd planted had refused to fade away. They taunted him, filled his dreams again and again, and every time he woke up either hard as a rock or soaking wet. He was _twenty_ , for fuck's sake - he was supposed to be done with wet dreams!

But that had just been the start of it. Once he'd had the thought planted in his mind, he'd found himself looking at Sammy, really looking at him as more than just his pain in the ass kid brother. And he liked what he saw - tanned skin, developing muscles, hands that were fucking _huge_ \- fuck, those hands! Dean's eyelids fluttered as he opened his jeans and shoved a hand inside, groping himself roughly through his underwear, picturing Sam's hand sliding down to wrap around his dick. He'd be clumsy, uncoordinated because he'd never done it, but so eager that it wouldn't matter...

He drew in a shuddering breath and let it out on a soft sigh. "Yeah," he whispered, eyes sliding closed as he eased his dick out and started to stroke, calluses catching on tender dry skin to produce a sweet pleasurepain. "Yeah, Sammy, that's it..." His thumb slid through the drops that were already forming on the tip, smearing them into his skin, and it didn't take long before he was pumping his fist faster, sliding over slick skin and milking even more out of himself. Like a fucking girl, he thought, wondering what the fuck it was about Sam that could make him leak like this, like he just had to have it.

Stopping just long enough to strip out of his shirt, he licked two fingers and pinched a nipple, hissing softly when his hips bucked into his hand in response. He thought about eager kisses moving down his body, sharp little teeth closing on his nipple, and pinched himself harder, then had to bite back a groan of pure need. "Faster," he gasped, thinking about Sam's eyes, how wide they would be, watching every little response to catalog his reactions, repeating whatever made Dean give him the responses he wanted. "Harder... yeeeeahhhh, like that, Sammy."

It was playing with fire, he knew that, risky and dangerous and above all, just plain stupid, to stand there in the bedroom they shared and jerk off to thoughts of Sam, but when he imagined long fingers slipping down to cup his balls and his dick jerked hard against his palm, Dean didn't care. Besides, he told himself, there was only Sammy there to catch him, and if he walked in and saw him, saw how hard he was, how hungry for it... He shuddered as he imagined arms wrapping around him, a hand swatting his away and taking over, while a hard cock pressed against his ass, proof that Sammy wanted him, needed his big brother every bit as much as Dean did him.

Another moan slipped out, and Dean could only hope Sam was as dead to the world as he'd looked, because there was no way he was stopping now. He worked himself hard and fast, hips shoving into his fist as he got lost in the feeling, the images of Sam behind him, rocking right along with him, Sam in front of him, hand shoved down into his jeans - fuck, would he come just from jerking Dean off, spray his jeans the way Dean had when he'd first thought of this? The idea was hot and he could practically see Sam's mouth go slack with pleasure as he emptied himself into his jeans, could picture his cheeks darkening at the realization of what he'd just done, could almost hear his broken moan when Dean pulled him to his feet and reached down to rub at the wet stain on his pants. "God, yeah," he panted. "Close... so fucking close, Sammy. C'mon, baby brother, make me come."

And there it was, the thing Dean couldn't say, couldn't think about: it was his _little brother_ that he wanted touching him, jerking him off and sinking to his knees in front of him, opening his mouth to suck Dean off and - He had just a heartbeat to grab his shirt off the bed before he started coming, shooting thick white ribbons of come all over his green cotton T-shirt, the sticky strands a gleaming, glistening evidence of his depravity as he fucked hard into his fist and thought about Sam's mouth wrapped around him, coming down Sammy's throat instead of onto a shirt. He was breathing as hard as if he'd run ten miles when he finally stopped, hand still slowly working over his softening dick, coaxing a few last spurts out that made him grunt softly with pure masculine satisfaction.

He stumbled over to the bed and sat down heavily on it, not even bothering to do up his jeans as he stared down at the shirt in his hands, at the streaks that were even now soaking into the cotton, leaving dark spots on the cloth. His mouth watered and he licked his lips, wondering what it tasted like, what it would be like to suck someone - _Sammy_ \- off, feel their dick jerk in his mouth right before it spurted out over his tongue and slid down his throat. The gleam of white against green was tantalizing, tempting him to - Dean balled the shirt up and threw it across the bed before he could do something he knew he shouldn't.

It wasn't that he had a problem with the idea of tasting his own spunk; it was more that he feared the hunger it might awaken. If it took root down inside him... he was already teetering on the brink of doing something monumentally stupid as it was. He wasn't sure how much longer he could hold out if it got much worse. Shaking his head, he tucked his dick back into his underwear, fastened his jeans, and went to clean up. He could do without the shirt - one of the few good things about Florida was the way he didn't have to wear three layers to keep warm.

Sam was just waking up when Dean emerged from the bathroom and started for the kitchen to see about dinner. Sam padded into the kitchen after him, bare feet slapping softly on the tile floor, and leaned against the counter, blinking sleepy eyes at his brother as Dean started checking the cupboards. "We're running kinda low... I'll go to the store tomorrow," he promised. "But for right now, how does spaghetti sound?"

"Sounds good," Sam agreed. He smiled at Dean, open and innocent, and Dean felt a twist of something inside that left him wanting to both mess his hair up in a brotherly display of affection and at the same time pull that sleep-warmed, strong body back into bed to nestle against it as something far more. It was disconcerting, the way he felt about Sam, and he slammed the cupboard a little harder than he usually did as he got the pot out, moving as far away from Sam as he could to fill it up with water.

"I'll take care of it - you go on," he barked out. "Just go put some clothes on. This might be Florida, but that doesn't mean you can run around the house in little stripper shorts." Confusion and hurt filled Sam's eyes and dammit if Dean didn't feel like he'd just kicked every single puppy in the world. He braced his hands against the sink and took a deep breath. "You're getting too old for that, Sam," he added, trying to take some of the sting out of his words. "Dad wouldn't like it."

Sam didn't answer, just turned around and started for the door. "Sammy," Dean called out, hating the tension in his shoulders when he stopped. "How's about we catch a movie tomorrow, huh? Just you and me."

He half-expected one of Sam's exuberant hugs in response, but instead he just got a brilliant smile and a quiet, "That sounds great, Dean," before his brother disappeared. Dean set the pot on the stove and turned the burner on, swallowing hard as he thought about what he'd just gotten himself into. Two hours in the dark with Sammy, side by side in those cramped little movie theater seats. They inevitably ended up plastered together when they went these days, Sam's long legs pressed against Dean's as they tried to cram themselves in chairs that weren't meant to hold guys their size...

 _Fuck._

He sighed and told himself that he had to do something to get rid of this feeling, had to find a way to fuck it out of his system or something before he got too drunk or hungry to hold back. He'd gotten too close as it was, and now he was only a few beers away from doing the unthinkable. No, he had to get out. Maybe that road trip some of the guys at the garage were talking about... Five states in five days. Not that he'd go with those idiots, but the idea had merit. It would give him some space, some time away to explore some of these new urges and hopefully have it all under control again by the end of it.

Yeah, that was it. Nodding to himself, Dean started whistling as he set about getting dinner ready. He'd talk to Dad about the road trip as soon as he got back, explain that he needed some time to himself, and when it was over, everything would be better. It was the perfect solution to this whole thing. Five days off to drink and hustle and fuck, and he'd have it all under control.


	4. Chapter 4

They were about fifty miles out of Black Water Ridge when Sam started fiddling with the radio. Dean wanted to protest, but Sam shot him a look that said he was just itching to remind Dean about the whole 'shotgun shutting his cakehole' rule, so he closed his mouth without a word. Besides, the station Sam stopped on wasn't too bad. Better than the alternative crap he used to listen to, anyway.

"May God bless and keep you always, may your wishes all come true..." Both brothers fell silent as the song started up, Sam reaching out to turn it up partway through.

He was smiling when Dean looked over at him, one of the few real smiles he'd seen since he dragged him out of that apartment building. "I remember this... you used to sing it to me when I was little."

"Yeah, well, you had weird taste in music even then," Dean shot back automatically. They listened to the song play out, and after it ended, Dean said quietly, "That was Mom's favorite song, you know."

Sam glanced at him. "Yeah? You never told me that before."

"You never seemed interested," Dean commented, turning the radio down. "Whenever Dad talked about her, you acted like you didn't want to hear it."

"I guess I always felt like she wasn't really real... she was just a story, y'know?" He chuckled softly. "I remember I used to get her confused with the tooth fairy sometimes."

"Yeah." It hurt to hear that, but it hurt even more to think that Sam hadn't gotten to know her. Dean had been little when she died, but he still remembered how soft and gentle her hands were, how she always smelled like sunshine and fabric softener, and how she made the best apple pie he'd ever had. He thought about the way she used to laugh and added, "You have her smile."

"Really?" The surprise in his brother's voice made him wonder how come Dad had never shared any of this. It should've been his job, remembering Mom and bringing her to life for both of them, but especially for Sam. He shouldn't have to wonder about simple things like her favorite song. "So how'd you know about -"

Dean smiled. "She used to sing it to me at bedtime. Both of us, actually; she started teaching me the words when you were born."

That perked Sam up. Like most kids, he'd always loved hearing about himself as a baby, but so many of those memories were tied in with Mom dying that Dean and Dad had gotten used to not talking about it. Now Dean wondered if he'd done his brother a disservice, keeping that part of his life from him. "She said it was my job to help sing you to sleep," he added. "Started right after you came home and kept going all the way up until she - she died."

"You remember all that? When I was born and everything?"

He laughed. "Hell, yeah. I remember her telling me about how I was getting a brother or a sister, which meant she had to explain the birds and bees to me." When Sam shot him a sidelong look, he socked him in the arm. "The four-year-old version, dude. Get your mind out of the gutter.

"Anyway, she and Dad gave me this book that had pictures of babies and husbands and wives. Real touchy-feely hippie shit. Used to have her read it to me every night." He cleared his throat as he remembered his mother's voice telling him the sweet, simple story of how babies were made. He'd hugged Sam every night before he was born, too, but he wasn't about to tell him that, even if he could still remember how it felt to have a little foot flutter against his chest when Sam kicked out to say hello back. "Of course, when she bought the book, she probably didn't count on me going around telling everyone that she was pregnant and how she got that way..."

Sam snorted. "Seriously?!?"

"Yep," Dean nodded. "I was pretty stoked about getting to be a big brother - couldn't know then what a dork you'd turn out to be, of course." Or how much of himself he'd find taken over by his brother. He sometimes thought he'd lost his heart to Sam the first time Mom had laid him in his arms. Only a few hours old, and Dean had taken one look and belonged to him, just as simple as that. And Sam had been his, as well, right from the moment they looked into each other's eyes.

But that was way too sappy to even _think_ of saying out loud, so he just looked out the window until Sam asked, "Did you resent me taking all the attention off of you? I know that happens sometimes with only children when they get a sibling."

Dean shook his head. "I don't think I could've if I'd tried. I mean, you were pretty ugly - all red and scrunched up -" He hadn't been, but he wasn't going to tell Sam that. He'd been perfect right from the start, baby soft skin and perfectly formed hands with tiny fingers that clung to Dean's, wrapped around him and held tight. "And I thought we might have to throw you back, but Mom seemed set on keeping you. She said you'd be pretty cool one day."

He flashed him a grin. "I'm still waiting for that day to get here, but -"

"Shut up," Sam muttered, smacking him upside the head.

Dean quickly put a hand up to smooth his hair back into place. "Hey, now - is that any way to act, just because I'm nice enough to hold out hope for you?"

Sam shook his head and sighed, but he was grinning all the same, and the sight of that grin made Dean's chest tighten. He raised one hand, rubbing over the ache in his breastbone, and when he saw Sam glance at him curiously, asked, "So what do you say we find a decent place to eat? I'm starving, and we need to get some papers, anyway."

"Yeah, sure. There's not too much between here and Denver, though."

Dean snorted and made himself comfortable in the space between the door and seat. "Sounds good," he muttered. "Wake me up when we get there, okay?"

"You got it." He could hear the smile in Sam's voice, and for the first time, he thought his brother was going to be okay. "Sleep tight, Dean."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Portions of the dialogue here written by John Shihan, featured in the episode "Everybody Loves a Clown"

They pulled up in front of Bobby's and Dean went inside just long enough to change and grab a sandwich before going out to where the Impala sat. He wanted to get the tires on her before sundown; maybe then he could actually believe that she'd be back on the road soon. The sooner, the better - he wasn't sure he could make it through another job driving the soccer mom minivan. Besides, this way he could do his best not to think about what Dad had said.

Or should he call him John now? It was still hard to believe, and if Bobby hadn't verified it, Dean wasn't sure he would've bought it. But Bobby had told him all he knew - which wasn't much - and there was no way to deny it. He'd been bought, purchased like a puppy at a pet store to cheer his mother up. Although he'd proved to be a lot more useful than a dog, hadn't he? He'd looked after Sammy, damn near raised the kid, actually, helped his father hunt down the demon that had torn their family apart, and his reward had been to get everything he'd grown up believing in torn apart. Dad, Mom, Sammy... God, Sammy...

As though his thoughts had summoned him, he heard footsteps scuffing in the dirt behind him, but didn't turn around to look at him as Sam walked over to the car. "You were right."

He got to his feet, not looking Sam in the eye as he rounded the trunk. Maybe if he didn't look at him, Sam would give up and go away. Dean really wasn't ready for the heart-to-heart he knew Sam wanted, wasn't ready to admit that he'd lied about Dad saying anything. Or tell him what he'd said, about either of them. "About what?"

"About me and Dad. I'm sorry that the last time I was with him I tried to pick a fight. I'm sorry that I spent most of my life angry at him. I mean, for all I know he died thinking that I hate him. So you're right. What I'm doing right now, it is too little. It's too late."

Too little, too late. Dean almost wanted to laugh at that statement. If Sam only knew how true it was, how very little Dad had done and how very late he'd done it, he'd - well, Dean wasn't sure what he'd do. Laugh? Rage at the secrets that had been kept from both of them? Or would he say that he didn't need an adopted brother and leave, go back to college despite his claim that it wasn't where he belonged anymore?

"I miss him, man. And I feel guilty as hell. And I'm not all right. Not at all. But neither are you. That much I know."

Red-rimmed eyes stared at him as Sam hovered on the verge of breaking down. One move, one word - hell, even a gesture - would tip the scales, leaving him shaking and sobbing, and then it would be so easy to wrap his arms around him, pull him close, and let him cry until he was empty. Until he was Dean's, the way he'd always wanted him to be. The way he could've been years ago if Dad had trusted him enough to tell him the fucking truth.

Sam took a shaky breath, obviously disappointed in Dean's lack of reaction. "I'll let you get back to work." He turned and walked away, just like he'd done the night he left for school.

For a long time, Dean stared after him, trying not to call him back and tell him everything. There was nothing he wanted more at that moment than to lay it all out, even if actually saying the words aloud broke him. A part of him whispered that it might be nice to be the one allowed to break down for once, to have someone else hold him while he laid a little of his burden down. It sucked always having to be the strong one, the one who stood by while everyone else went off the rails. Dean had spent years putting Dad to bed when he was drunk, listening to him ramble about Mom and the revenge he'd get for her death one day. He'd done his best to keep Dad and Sam from killing each other, protected Sam in every way he knew how for as long as he could, all the while burying the desire that he was certain was sick and twisted and wrong. Ever since Mom had died, Dean had done everything he could to hold his family together, to bear up and be strong and basically do her job. But it hadn't been enough, because everything had fallen apart.

Picking up a crowbar, he slammed it into a window. Glass shattered, bursting around him in a thousand pieces, but it wasn't enough. He needed to hurt something else, something more important... Turning around, he stared at the Impala for a minute before he brought the crowbar down on the shining black metal. John had loved that car, babied it and cared for it and taught Dean everything he knew about mechanics to keep it running smoothly. And when he turned 21... he'd given it to him. It had been the best day of his life when Dad handed him the keys and said she was his. He'd spent the day washing and waxing her, buffing her until she shone like a black diamond in the sun, then he'd gone to pick Sam up from school, determined to make sure nobody else got the chance to ride in her before the two of them. They'd spent the afternoon on the road, pushing the speed limit all the way to the next town, where they got milkshakes and split an order of fries before they had to head back. It had been perfect, one of the few perfect days he'd ever known.

But it didn't count for shit now. The Impala had been a priceless gift from Dad, an heirloom he thought meant something, just like he'd believed that being Sam's brother meant something as well. But both of those things were worthless, turned to dust with a few words from his father's lips. The father he'd followed to the ends of the earth, that he'd spent the better part of a year looking for, the man he'd chosen over Sam. The man he'd loved and modeled himself on, trying to be even a little like him. The man he hated.

Over and over, he smashed the crowbar down on the hood, grunts and near sobs tearing their way free with every blow. He could see a dent forming in the trunk, watch the metal coming apart, just like he seemed to be. And he wanted to keep going, tear the car apart bit by bit until it lay in shreds, just like everything he'd believed in. Maybe then he could forget, maybe then he could move on and begin to think of forgiving - maybe once his father's most prized possession was scrap metal, maybe _then_ Dean's rage would finally be appeased. Or maybe it would just be the start.

A particularly hard swing nearly toppled him over and the crowbar clattered to the ground as one hand shot out to brace himself against the car. And any other time he would've thrown himself on the car, would've let his baby take his weight and tears, but now he just pushed himself up and looked back at the house with hot, dry eyes. Back towards Sam.

Sam. He was what was important now. There was nothing Dean could do about his birth - even if he was somehow able to track his birth parents down, he couldn't take the risk of leading danger to their door. They were probably nice, normal people with no clue about the monsters out there in the dark, and they deserved to keep their illusions as long as possible. That, or they'd been junkies or something equally depressing, and he really didn't want to know if that was the case. Either way, that particular secret was one he'd just have to live with and come to terms with on his own.

But not Sam. He could do something about Sam, could make sure he saved Sam the way Dad asked him to.

And if he couldn't? Then the whole world could burn, because there was no way he was even considering the rest of it. He didn't care if they weren't really related or not; he wasn't killing Sam.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Portions of the dialogue here written by Matt Witten, featured in the episode "Playthings"

Dean headed up to the room to check in with Sam, careful to lock the door behind him even as he wondered why Sam had left the key in the lock. It wasn't like him to be so careless. "There's been another one," he informed Sam. "Some guy just hung himself in his room."

"Yeah, I saw," Sam muttered

"We gotta figure this out and fast," Dean told him, unzipping his bag and pulling the journal out. "What'd you find out about Granny?"

"She thought we were gay."

"Who, Rose? How could she think that? She hasn't seen us or anything, seems like she's jumping to conclusions pretty quick."

Sam surged up out of his chair. "No, Susan. She thought we were gay." He swayed a little and took a lurching step towards Dean, who dropped the journal and shot a hand out to steady him, even though they were still a good twenty feet or so apart.

Jesus, what had gotten into Sam? "Are you drunk?" Dean demanded, hardly able to believe it. He glanced at the dresser, which was littered with empty bottles and gave serious thought to kicking his brother's ass for being stupid enough to do this mid-case.

"Yeah. So?" Suddenly Sam was right there, hand closing around his arm, jerking hard enough to pull him off balance and send him stumbling backwards. And either Sam was a hell of a lot less drunk than Dean thought he was, or he'd had more practice since the first time he'd done this when he was sixteen, because he managed to push Dean up against the door and move to block him before he could really process what was happening. "You wanna know why Susan thought we were gay, Dean?"

He licked lips that felt dry and chapped, and tried not to yank Sam down for a kiss or do something equally stupid, like try to molest him when he eventually had to wrestle him into bed. _Just keep calm_ _,_ he told himself. _Don't react and you can get out of this without him finding out._ "No, Sammy, I don't. You wanna tell me?"

Hot breath played over his skin and he could smell the heavy scent of whiskey and tequila. Booze had never really been his thing, but after tonight, he was going to have to rethink that, especially when Sam leaned in and said, "Probably because she caught me staring at your ass when we walked in here." He was still reeling from that confession when Sam added, "I've been doing it since I was fifteen, you know... staring at your ass and thinking about how good it would feel to rub off on it."

"You have?" he croaked, staring blankly at him. God, had he walked into some kind of parallel dimension at some point, one where Sam had the same twisted desires that he did?

Sam nodded. "I used to jerk off to it all the time when I was younger and we'd be at a gas station. You'd get out to put the gas in and I'd sit in the car and jerk off thinking about shoving you up against the back door and humping you, right there at the pump."

Dean's eyes fluttered and a soft moan slipped free, followed by an even louder one when Sam added, "I did it up here, too, while you were down there talking to Susan. Stood at the window and looked down at you and couldn't stop thinking about it." He grabbed Dean's hand and led it to his crotch, forcing his hand against the denim that was still damp.

"In your pants, Sammy?" Dean sucked in a sharp breath, a hot twist of desire stabbing through him at the idea of his brother needing it so bad that he couldn't even wait to get his dick out. "Is that how you used to do it?" he asked, flexing his hand against the swelling bulge in Sam's jeans, rubbing over him the same way he imagined Sam doing it just a little while ago. "You wanted it that much, couldn't even make it to the bathroom to jerk off?"

"Uh huh," Sam groaned, thrusting against his hand. "Or maybe I just wanted you to catch me. Maybe I thought you'd see my wet jeans and figure out what I'd been doing and - oh, God - punish me for it."

"I should," Dean agreed, licking his lips again. "Should put you over my knee and spank you for doing something like that. Fuck, Sammy..."

Sam's mouth cut off whatever else he was going to say, lips crashing down on his for a split second before he opened for him and then Sam's tongue was there, sliding over his, hot and slick and so fucking good that Dean thought he might come just from kissing him. But there was no time to think, not when Sam's hands moved in between them to start working on his belt, tearing it open and moving on to his fly.

Dean knew he needed to be the responsible one, needed to stop his brother before this went too far. Sam was drunk, not in his right mind, and Dean couldn't take advantage of that, even when one of those big hands slid down to stroke him through his jeans. And God, that made him think about Sam jerking himself off until he unloaded in his jeans, and damn if he didn't want to see him do that right fucking now, except it would mean he had to let go of Sam, and that just wasn't happening.

"Wanted this so long," Sam panted, biting Dean's lip in between kisses. "Wanted to shove you up against the closest thing after a hunt, jerk off in the car for you or just start stroking you, slide over and grab your dick and get you off while you drove us back to the motel."

The images he was painting made Dean groan and start jerking at the button on Sam's jeans with his free hand. "Yeah, Sammy. God, think I'd have run right off the road if you'd done that." But he wouldn't have cared, he knew that. Just the idea of it was enough to send a shiver of want straight down his spine, and when Sam's hand slid into his jeans to close around his dick, he could only moan and shove up into his fist.

"Fuck, so hard for me," Sam panted, squeezing him through his underwear. "Wanna suck you, Dean. Thought about it - ungh - so many times, just ducking down to suck you when we were on the road sometime." He pulled the front of Dean's underwear down, and then there were long fingers wrapping around him, hot and strong and callused and so fucking good that Dean's head thumped back against the door. "Would you have let me, huh? Let me kneel down in the floorboard and suck you off?"

There was no hiding the way his dick jerked in Sam's grasp at the thought of him doing that, of feeling Sam's mouth, hot and wet and perfect around him while they flew down the road in his baby. "Yeah, Sammy, yeah, God, want you to do that so fucking much." Dean finally managed to get his brother's jeans open and shoved his hand inside to find him bare against the denim, his dick still sticky with the residue of his most recent climax. "Fuck, Sammy, so fucking hot." And huge, he realized, hand sliding over the length as he drew Sam's dick out, his own mouth watering at the thought of tasting him.

Sam groaned and slid his thumb over the tip of Dean's cock, smearing it through the precome that was leaking out of him. "Wanna fuck you, too," he told him. "Spread you out and work you open until you beg for it, then fuck you til you scream."

 _Jesus._ Where had his geeky little brother gone, and who had left the sex god with the filthy mouth in his place? Dean yanked him in for another kiss, sucking on his tongue as he jerked him, his movements slightly awkward thanks to the angle, but Sam didn't seem to notice, if the way he moaned into his mouth was any indication. "Want it," he panted when they broke for air. "Want that fucking giant cock of yours in me, wanna feel you fucking me so goddamned bad, Sammy."

"Yeah?" Sam batted his hand away and pressed up against him, their dicks sliding slickly together as he shoved Dean hard up against the door. "God, Dean, I can't - Fuck, I can't wait. Need it now." He planted his hands on either side of Dean's head as he started rutting against him, hips shoving desperately forward, driving Dean back hard against the door. "Didn't think you'd - but you do and fuck, I - oh shit, Dean, gonna - I gotta -"

Dean wrapped his arms around his brother's neck, fingers finding their way into Sam's hair to tug and urge him on. "C'mon, Sammy. Fuck my dick, give it to me." He was grateful that his only answer was a groan and hard thrust against him, because he knew there was no way he could stop now. "God, so fucking hard, gonna come so hard for you." And soon, but with the way Sam was grunting and gasping for air, he didn't think that would be too much of a problem.

With Dean egging him on, Sam seemed to forget anything besides the climax that was chasing both of them. He fucked hard against his brother, both of their bodies thumping against the door with every thrust. The door rattled on its hinges, no amount of sturdy, old-time construction able to hide what they were doing up against it, but Dean didn't care, not when he was gonna come - oh God, he was gonna come all over his little brother's dick. He could feel the need for it clawing at his gut, his balls drawing up hot and tight against the base of his cock, heat sizzling through his veins and when Sam leaned in and scraped his teeth along his jaw...

Dean moaned out something that sounded vaguely like Sam's warning, his body arching off the door as he started to come, only to be slammed back into it a heartbeat later as Sam followed him right over the edge, his dick pulsing and shooting hot all over Dean while a low, rattling groan tore itself free, the low sound seemingly ripped right out of the depths of his brother's soul, and that shouldn't be hot, but it lodged itself inside Dean and he couldn't think beyond _more, God, Sammy, more_ as he came harder than he'd even known was possible, time and space and everything besides Sam falling away into nothingness.

He drifted back to himself to find Sam slumped against him, both of them breathing like they'd spent the last fifteen minutes running for their lives instead of fucking up against a door. Dean licked his lips, wincing a little at the slide of his own tongue over tender, kiss-swollen flesh. Bracing his hands against Sam's shoulders, he pushed at him gently. "C'mon, Sasquatch, time for bed."

When he didn't move, Dean pushed a little harder. "Gonna suffocate me, man, with your big-ass self crushing my rib cage. How about giving me a little air, here?"

The familiar taunts seemed to rouse him, because Sam raised his head, eyes dark and sleepy with satisfaction. He stared at Dean's mouth for a second and nodded when Dean pressed against him again, sluggishly straightening up. Dean recognized the lazy movements, the lassitude that only really good sex could produce, and felt a sharp twinge of desire echo through him. He wanted to see that again, wanted to make Sam look like this over and over again, preferably stretched out on that big bed behind them after Dean had kissed and licked him from head to toe.

But when he pulled away, Sam staggered, the alcohol clearly hitting him harder than he'd expected. Dean grabbed his arm to steady him. "Easy, there. C'mon, let's get you to bed, huh?"

Sam must've been drunker than Dean thought, because he didn't argue, just nodded again and let Dean guide him over to the bed and push him down onto the mattress. He managed to get him stripped down to his T-shirt and underwear before Sam gave him a sleepy smile and lay down, flipping over onto his stomach and slipping an arm under his pillow, the same way he'd slept ever since he was twelve and his lengthening arms and legs had demanded more room. Within seconds, he was fast asleep.

Dean stared down at him for a long minute. He wanted nothing more than to finish stripping Sammy down so he could crawl into bed with his brother and wrap himself around that warm skin, but there was a case to think about. And if his seventeenth birthday was any indicator, Sam wasn't going to be good for much help in the morning. Hell, he'd be lucky if he remembered any of this. Dean sighed, stroking a hand over the arch of Sam's back before he went to clean himself up and change. Maybe he could go back downstairs and get that old guy to give him a little more information. The sooner they figured out what was going on, the better.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Portions of the dialogue here written by Matt Witten, featured in the episode "Playthings"

Sam was still passed out when Dean woke up. He looked innocent like this, his face drained of all the tension and worry that was usually visible on his features, his mouth slightly open as though waiting for a kiss to wake him up. Dean grinned and slid out of bed, moving as carefully as possible to avoid disturbing him. He hadn't budged when Dean had climbed in with him last night, but by then he doubted a freight train running through the room would've woken him. Good thing, too; Dean had been up half the night listening to one rambling, nonsensical story after another, and he was exhausted by the time he made it back to their room. But thanks to Sherwin, he now knew what - or should he say, _who_ \- they were dealing with

Dean did his best to hurry through his morning routine. Sam and alcohol usually didn't mix too well, and he still vividly remembered the first time Sam had gotten drunk. In Dean's defense, he'd had no way of knowing that three beers would make the kid spew like he was trying out for the remake of The Exorcist. Unfortunately, their father hadn't agreed with him, and he'd wound up with extra PT and no car for the better part of a month because of it. Once he was dressed, he kissed Sam on the top of his head and made a swift, silent getaway. Dean loved his brother, but he wasn't about to stick around for this particular morning after.

He did, however, get Sam a cup of coffee and some painkillers from Susan, because he was awesome that way.

When he walked back into the room, Sam was on his knees in front of the toilet, the wide-open bathroom door making it clear that he'd made a run for it pretty much as soon as he woke up. He really was bad off; a wretched, pitiful sight if Dean had ever seen one. "How you feeling, Sammy?" A thoroughly miserable groan answered him. "I guess mixing whiskey and Jager wasn't such a gangbuster idea, was it?"

He set the coffee and pills down on the dresser and glanced at the bed. "I'll bet you don't remember a thing from last night, do you?" Dean wasn't sure what answer he was hoping for; on the one hand, he'd like to think it hadn't all just been alcohol-fueled horndogedness that had Sam pinning him up against the door, but on the other, maybe it was better if it was. Sam had enough to deal with without adding this to it.

Another deep groan drifted out of the bathroom. "I can still taste the tequila."

Just like the morning after his seventeenth birthday; he hadn't remembered the kiss they'd shared then, either. Dean smiled and told himself it was a good thing. "You know, there's a really good hangover remedy, it's a - it's a greasy pork sandwich served up in a dirty ashtray."

"Oh, I hate you," Sam moaned, retching feebly without really bringing anything up. Probably because there was nothing left except maybe that quarter he'd swallowed when he was five.

"I know you do." He grabbed the painkillers and headed over to the bathroom to fill Sam in on how the rest of his night had turned out. "Hey, turns out when Grandma Rose was a tyke she had a Creole nanny who wore a hoodoo necklace." The sour smell of sickness hit him like a punch to the stomach and he turned his head away, fighting a wave of sympathetic nausea.

Sam tilted his head to look up at him, still not letting go of the toilet. "So you think she taught Rose hoodoo?"

"Yes I do."

"All right." Sam grunted as he hauled himself off the bathroom floor, reaching out to flush when he was mostly upright. "I think it's time we talked to Rose, then."

Dean shook his head and shoved the painkillers at Sam. "Oh. You can brush your teeth first." Sam's breath was enough to drop an elephant. But at least it kept him from thinking about kissing him senseless, so that was a good thing.

His brother took the pills, nodded, and turned to go back into the bathroom, but he paused in the doorway and called out, "Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?" he answered absent-mindedly, already mentally reviewing the day ahead of them.

"About last night... I remember _everything._ " Dean whipped around so hard he nearly gave himself whiplash, but Sam had already closed the door, and it wasn't long before he heard the ancient pipes creaking and groaning in protest as the shower came sputtering to life.

It took everything he had not to follow Sam into the shower, trail after him like a puppy dog, desperate for whatever crumbs of affection he could get, but somehow Dean managed to hold on to his self-control by the skin of his teeth. Not that staying outside kept thoughts of being inside at bay, however; he could practically see it, steam billowing around them as he pressed Sam up against the cool tile and kissed him senseless, could almost feel the hard enamel tub against his knees as he sank down to take his brother to heaven and back while nails raked over his scalp. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear Sam's breathless cries, his voice hoarse with need as he called his name, just like he had last night...

 _"Dean."_ His eyes snapped open to see Sam standing in the doorway of the bathroom, regarding him with thinly veiled amusement mixed with a hint of concern. "You planning on us leaving the room anytime today?"

"Uh... yeah, sorry." He pushed himself to his feet and watched Sam walk around to the other side of the bed and pull his bag up onto the rumpled cover, starting to rummage around in it for clothes. His brother's skin shone damply from his shower, and Dean clamped down tight on an urge to lean in and lick him, taste the clean mix of soap and Sam that he knew had to be better than any drug. "Anyway, I was thinking we'd head upstairs to try to get a word with Rose and -"

Sam held up a hand to stop him. "Hang on a second, okay? There's, uh, there's something I need to talk to you about." Sam pulled underwear and jeans on, stalling for time before he took a shaky breath and blurted out, "I need you to watch out for me."

What was he getting at now? Dean frowned and said, "I always do."

His brother didn't look up from his duffel, seemingly too absorbed in the question of which shirt was cleanest for several minutes. Finally, he said quietly, "No, not like that. You have to watch out for me, all right? And if I ever turn into something that I'm not... you have to kill me."

Kill him? "Sam," he started, although he had no idea what else to say, besides 'hell no'. He didn't get much of a chance to say anything, however, because Sam looked up at him for the first time and gave him a sad smile.

"Dean, Dad told you to do it, you have to."

"Yeah, well, Dad's an ass." Sam stared blankly at him, probably astounded that he would say something like that about the man he'd worshipped for years. But then, Sam only knew half of it. "He never should have said anything, I mean, you don't do that, you don't. You don't lay that kind of crap on your kids."

Sam shook his head, his mouth firming into a line that Dean recognized with a sickening twist in his stomach. He'd looked like that the night he informed them he was going to Stanford. "No. He was right to say it. Who knows what I might become?" Dean opened his mouth to protest, to point out that he didn't care what happened, that Sam was still his brother no matter what he turned into, but Sam didn't give him a chance to get a word in edgewise. "Even now, everyone around me dies."

"Yeah, well, I'm not dying, okay?" Although he knew he would, if his death could keep Sam safe. He watched Sam pull out a shirt and yank it on and added, "And neither are you. Come on. Sam."

"Dean, you're the only one who can do it." That was the truth; Dean knew he was probably the only one who could get close enough to take him down if Sammy went darkside on them. Trouble was, he didn't think he'd be able to pull the trigger even then. But Sam must've seen something in his face, because he pressed his case. "Promise."

God, just the thought of having to put him down... "Don't ask that of me," Dean begged. Anything else, he'd gladly agree to almost anything else, but not that. Not being the one to take Sam out, like he was something to be hunted, some monster instead of his beloved brother.

Sam's hand shot out to grab his sleeve, pulling him down to the end of the bed to meet him in the middle, fixing resolute hazel eyes on him. "Dean, please. You have to promise me."

Dean stared into his eyes, saw the pain there and the desperation written on his face, and knew that he had to do this. Sammy needed this, needed the reassurance, and what Sammy needed, Dean provided. He licked his lips and slowly nodded, somehow managing to choke out, "I promise."

"Thanks." He wrapped one hand around the back of Dean's neck, pulling him in until he could rest his forehead against his brother's. "Thank you," he breathed.

Dean swallowed thickly, wishing he could just forget about the hotel and whatever was haunting it. "All right." He patted Sam's chest, hand lingering just a little over his heart. "Come on."

Sam nodded and pulled away to finish buttoning his shirt. They still had a case to work, but Dean swore to himself that once it was over, they were going to have another talk, both about the promise Sam had just gotten him to make and what happened last night. Well, he intended to do more than just talk about the last thing, actually.

And this time, he was going to lock up the liquor bottles and make sure Sam was sober enough that there would be no question about him remembering it the next day.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Portions of the dialogue here written by Sera Gamble, featured in the episode "All Hell Breaks Loose, Part 1"

If Dean had been seeing things clearly, he would've caught on a lot quicker, realized that it had been far too easy to trap the demon they'd spent the last three days tracking, but he was still too rattled to think straight. He'd tried not to let it get to him but there was a part of him that wanted the world the djinn had given him back, the one where his adoption had been explained to him when he was young, where Mom and Dad had gone with him to meet his birth mother and sisters - and he'd had _sisters!_ How weird was _that?_ \- and his biggest problem had been the distance between him and Sam. No demons, no yellow-eyed sons of bitches stalking them, just his own dickish behavior keeping them apart. But he could've gotten past that, could've won Sam back if he'd been there longer, he knew that - just look at how he'd gone with him to face the djinn without hesitation. Dean couldn't say he hadn't been tempted to stay, to just let go and give in to the web of peace and promises that had been spun around him.

It was only the knowledge that the real Sam - his Sam - would be left alone to face that yellow-eyed bastard that kept him from it. So he'd done the right thing, pulled himself out, but he hadn't counted on how the memories he'd brought out with him would distract him. He'd tried to keep his mind on the job they were working, and he'd done pretty well right up until they caught up with the demon that was possessing Lucille Watson and cornered it in a devil's trap. Then somehow he tripped up, fumbling over the words of the _Rituale Romanum_ like he'd never even seen Latin before, and the demon seized its chance.

"Dean, Dean, Dean... That's not really how a Winchester handles things like me, is it?" She shot him a saccharine smile and cooed, "Say, there's something we could talk about. Winchesters - especially the one named Dean. Didn't you ever wonder about him, Sammy?"

Dean glared at the demon. "Shut up."

He started reading again, but her comment had caught his brother's interest, and, as usual, when Sam wanted to know something, there was no distracting him. "What about him?"

"Well, he doesn't really look like you, does he? Doesn't have John's eyes or Mary's smile... although she doesn't get to smile very often down in the Pit. Neither does Jessica, but I guess you don't care about her anymore. You've got someone new in your bed now, don't you?"

A muscle ticked in Sam's jaw and he raised the bottle of holy water, but the demon just smiled. "You don't want to do that, Sammy. Not if you want to hear the truth about your precious brother, the secret that he's kept from you the entire time you two have been fucking your way across the country."

Sam's hand slowly lowered and black eyes gleamed with inky satisfaction as the girl nodded. "That's a good boy. I bet Dean calls you that all the time, doesn't he? Especially when you spread your legs for him."

This time Dean shouldered Sam aside and backhanded her. "Shut the fuck up!"

She was laughing as she turned her head back to look at him, blood trickling from her mouth. "Oh, so it's like that, huh? Gotta say, I'm a little surprised - I'd had you down as a top, Deano." Raising one hand, she wiped the trail of blood up and licked it off her finger, shooting him a coy little smile. "But then again, I guess I should've known. With that mouth of yours, you were pretty much destined to be somebody's bitch, weren't you?"

God, he hated her. He hated that knowing gleam in her eyes, the smile that said she knew he was destined for Hell, but most of all, he hated the way she was turning what he and Sam had into something sordid. Forcing himself to swallow his anger, he flipped back to the beginning of the ritual and started again. _"Regna terrae, cantate Deo, psallite Domino qui fertis super caelum caeli ad Orientem. Ecce dabit voci Suae vocem virtutis, tribuite virtutem Deo. Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus -"_

"What about Dean?" Sam broke in, staring intently at the demon. "Tell me."

 _"Omnis satanica potestas,"_ Dean continued, wishing desperately that he hadn't fucked it up the first time. _"Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica."_

"Make him stop first," she shot back at Sam, who shook his head.

"You first. Tell or go back to Hell on the express train."

 _"Ergo draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica adjuramus te. Cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare. Vade, Satana -"_

"He's not your brother!" the demon shrieked, gasping in pain as Dean continued with the ritual. "John Winchester bought him when Mary lost their daughter in a car accident a couple of months before he was born!"

Sam took a step backward, shaking his head. "No. No, you're lying."

"I'm not!" she insisted. "Think about it, Sam - you can see the differences between you. And it's not the first time you've wondered, either. Remember when you were studying genetics in junior high and you asked your father why Dean had green eyes and neither of you did?"

"He said it came from Mom's side of the family," Sam argued, but the flat voice that came out of his mouth said more clearly than any words could that he believed her.

The demon laughed. "He lied. Just like Dean's been lying to you for months." When Sam glanced over at him, she jibed, "You think he doesn't know? You think your father didn't tell him right before he died, when he told him about you?"

 _"Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine. Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos."_ Dean's voice rose as he neared the end, twining with the demon's scream as he shouted out the final line. _"Ut inimicos sanctae Ecclesiae humiliare digneris, te rogamus, audi nos!"_

Black smoke burst out of the girl's mouth, swirling up in a column and forming a cloud above her head before it was sucked down into the devil's trap and the waiting vortex of flames that appeared to swallow it up. Once the smoke was gone, the flames vanished and Lucille Watson collapsed to the ground. Dean closed the book and handed it to Sam, then stepped into the devil's trap to tend to the unconscious girl that had had the bad luck to break up with her boyfriend just as there was a demon in the area looking for a host. Despair had made her an easy target, and Dean was thankful to find her still breathing. Apparently the demon had cared more about baiting them into her own trap than destroying her host.

The next several hours were spent dealing with practicalities: getting Lucille to the hospital for a checkup, going over their usual story for the doctors: they'd found her passed out and disoriented, they didn't know her, they hadn't seen what she'd taken but she hadn't said anything about offing herself so they were pretty it was just an accident, etc. Once they were free to go, they went back to the park to clean up the salt and gather their supplies up, removing almost every trace of their presence. They left the devil's trap, just like they always did; maybe one day they'd get enough of them out there that the demons would think twice about coming topside. Dean found himself actually grateful for the tedium of it all, since it gave him something to do without having to think about what had just happened. Sort of like cleaning his guns, actually.

Sam didn't say anything until they went back to the motel, but as soon as they were in their room, he let Dean have it with both barrels. "Is it true? What the demon said - about you."

"Yeah." Dean sighed heavily. "Sammy, look -"

"Don't call me that!" The words made him flinch, the derision in Sam's voice cutting sharper than any knife. "You don't get to sit there and call me 'Sammy' when you just - you just -"

He hung his head. "I know. But I thought... I mean, I didn't want to hurt you, and -"

"So you'd rather let me think I was committing incest?" Dean cringed again, unable to keep still at the word they'd danced around but never actually spoken. "You couldn't even bother to tell me that I didn't have to feel guilty because I wasn't fucking my actual _brother?_ "

"I am your brother, Sam!" Dean snapped without thinking about it. "I might not be your blood, but dude, I remember when you were born. I changed your fucking diapers, man, so don't for one second think this isn't every bit as twisted and wrong as if we really were both Mom and Dad's kids." He wondered what the hell he was doing, if he wasn't somehow talking himself out of ever getting to touch Sam again, but he wasn't going to let Sam delude himself. He might be some other woman's by birth, but he'd been Sam's brother almost all his life, and he wasn't about to give that up. If Sam wanted him, he'd have to take that part of him as well.

Sam's mouth twisted, like he was about to be sick, but he didn't say anything, just shoved past Dean and stalked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. A few minutes later, Dean heard the shower come on, just as if this was any other hunt they'd wrapped up. Except that after any other hunt, he'd be in there with him, dragged in and stripped by those giant, perfect hands, shoved into the shower and pressed up against the tile while they celebrated one more narrow escape or one more victory over the things in the dark.

Instead, he was out here, and the closed door between them said clearer than words that he was likely to stay out here. Alone.

Dean told himself it was no big deal. He'd gotten by on his own before Sam, and he could do it again. But that had been before he'd known what those hands felt like on his body, or what it was like to have Sam pin him against the nearest wall and kiss him until he forgot his own name. It had been before he'd learned how much his brother liked to tease or how hot he was when someone else flirted with Dean and his eyes turned all dark and possessive. He swallowed hard, tried his best not to think about it as he stripped down to his boxers and climbed in bed, well aware that this was probably the last time he'd get to share a bed with Sam. Hell, after today, he'd be lucky if Sam didn't insist on separate rooms next time they stopped.

Eventually, the shower stopped running and shortly afterward, the bathroom door opened. Dean lay still while Sam walked over to the bed, rummaged in his bag for a pair of shorts, and climbed into bed as well. He thought about last night, when he'd fallen asleep wrapped around Sam, both of them sticky and sated, and bit his lip at the hot ball of pain that formed in his chest when he imagined never getting to have that again, that closeness, as though they were two halves of a whole.

It was a long time before either of them slept.

The next morning started off tense, with Dean sneaking out of bed to shower and dress before Sam woke up, but one of Sam's fancy coffee drinks helped ease some of the worst of it, and when Sam started in bitching at him for leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor, Dean thought that maybe there was a way they actually could get past this. A call from Bobby had them headed East for a possible job, and while they didn't talk, the atmosphere in the car eased a little more as the day drew on. Dean was actually looking forward to stopping for the night, especially when Sam gave him one of those sidelong looks before he asked about getting dinner to go. That usually meant a night in, generally one that included plenty of sex and more than one orgasm apiece. And that was something Dean could always get behind.

They pulled into the first diner they came to, and Dean eased the car into park and turned to look at Sam. "Hey, don’t forget the extra onions this time, huh?"

"Dude, I’m the one whose gonna have to ride in the car with your extra onions." Although he knew it wasn't really the riding in the car that Sam was complaining about, but the kissing that would hopefully come later. Dean just grinned at him, a smile that said he knew full well why Sam didn't like his extra onions and he wanted them anyway. Sam snatched the money out of his hand and grunted as he got out of the car, but he didn't say anything else about it.

Slinging an arm across the seat, he decided to rub his victory in just a bit. "Hey, see if they’ve got any pie." Sam leaned down and shot him a bitchface before he slammed the door shut. "Bring me some pie!" Dean yelled after him. He watched his brother's ass twitch with undisguised appreciation in his eyes as Sam stalked off to the diner. "I love me some pie," he said softly to himself as he reached down to turn the radio up. He had good music, and would soon have good food and a room at the nearest motel with his brother, where he intended to show Sammy just how awesome make-up sex could be.

Oh yeah, life was sweet.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ortions of the dialogue here written by Eric Kripke, featured in the episode "All Hell Breaks Loose, Part 2"

Dean was glad Bobby left when he did; if he hadn't, he might've drawn down on him, and he really didn't want to have to do that. But the thought of burying Sam, salting and burning his body the way they'd done to Dad's, standing beside Bobby and watching flames take what was left of him away from him... Dean's stomach turned over at the thought. And walking away wasn't an option, either. Not when he knew Bobby would come back and deal with Sam the second his back was turned.

God, that hurt. His sensual lover and amazingly smart brother wasn't there anymore - Sam was something to be 'dealt with' now. He was one more body to dispose of, one more tally on the list of losses that had followed Dean around his whole life. And Dean was supposed to somehow leave him, put him in the ground or on the funeral pyre, and go back to fighting demons like he'd never existed. Like he hadn't just had the other half of him - the best half - ripped away from him.

Well, fuck that.

He drained the last of the bottle and set it down on the table, wincing at how loud the thunk of glass meeting wood seemed in the quiet room. After three days, he'd lost track of how many he'd gone through, but he didn't care. He planned on drinking his way through what he had in the car and then... well, then he guessed he'd go cold turkey, because going to get more meant leaving Sam, and he couldn't do that.

Dean walked over to the mattress and knelt down on the floor beside it, the dirty, lumpy, stained, bad-smelling mattress that had been all they'd had to put Sam on. It wasn't right - Sam deserved better. He should be lying in on a feather bed with silk sheets wrapped around him, should have satin caressing his skin with Dean tucked up beside him, warm and naked and not intending to go anywhere for the next couple of months. He should be fussing over Dean for how much he drank, nagging at him to eat better and drive slower. He should be _alive_ , dammit.

Staring at his brother's body, he wanted to scream, but instead words came pouring out of him, unbidden and honest to a fault. "When you were little, couldn't have been more than five, you just started asking questions. How come we didn't have a mom? Why did we always have to move around? Where's Dad? I remember I begged you, 'Quit asking, Sammy. You don't want to know.' I just wanted you to be a kid, just for a little while longer. Always tried to protect you. Keep you safe. Dad didn't even have to tell me. It was just always my responsibility, you know? It's like I had one job. I had one job, and I screwed it up. I blew it, and for that, I'm sorry. I guess that’s what I do. I let down the people I love."

He took a ragged breath and reached out to touch for the first time, hand settling over Sam's, needing the contact to keep him grounded. "That's why I didn't tell you, you know. I didn't want you thinking that we were different because of it, that I loved you any less because we weren't blood, or that that was the only reason I wanted you. Christ, Sammy, I wanted you since we were kids, can't hardly remember a time that I didn't. Blood or not, you're my brother and that was never gonna change. And I should've told you, but after Massachusetts, when we - It was everything I'd ever wanted, the way you looked at me. And I just wanted to be your big brother a little while longer. It was selfish, but I guess that's me, too. A selfish failure. Some prize you caught, huh?" Dean raised Sam's hand, muffling a sob against the skin that was already cold and inhuman to the touch. He wanted to just curl up around his body and never let go, wanted to find a way to stop the world so he didn't have to spend one more minute without Sam.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," he whispered hoarsely. "God, I'm so sorry." He'd failed, just like he'd known he would. Looking down at the beloved features, so unnaturally still and composed, Dean told himself that there was one thing left that he couldn't fail at. He leaned down to kiss Sam, lingering only a moment on the waxy lips that were nothing like the ones he'd ravished just a week ago.

When he straightened up, there was a new light in his eyes, a determination in the set of his jaw and the deep breath he drew. He got up and went out to the Impala to get what he needed, preparing it with sure, steady hands. Sam had forgiven him for keeping the truth about his birth from him; he'd seen that in the way he turned and stumbled towards him in the moments before he was - before he fell. Hopefully he could forgive him this as well.

Dean walked back into the cabin where his brother and lover lay, closing the door carefully behind him. He checked the salt lines and rough protection sigils that he and Bobby had put down when they'd first brought Sam there, making sure it was all intact before he returned to Sam. Sinking down onto the floor, he reached out to lace his fingers through Sam's, raising their joined hands to kiss them, then he began to sing.

"May God bless and keep you always, may your wishes all come true..." His voice cracked partway through the first verse, and he had to work not to break down when he reached the chorus. Forever young. Sam would be that, forever young and beautiful - just like Mom. She'd been forever young, too. But Dean already knew that he couldn't keep going the way Dad had. He didn't have two kids depending on him, didn't have anybody that he had to stay for, and he wasn't strong enough to spend the next twenty-two years without Sam. Not and keep his sanity, at any rate.

Tears were coursing down his cheeks by the time he finished the song, his voice little more than a whisper when he choked out the last words. He squeezed Sam's hand, but didn't let go as he brought the gun up under his chin, steel almost as cold as Sam's flesh pressing up against his jaw. "Love you, Sammy," he told him, and he thought he caught a glimpse of... something out of the corner of his eye, a blur of movement that could've been a tall shadow lingering, waiting for him to catch up the way he used to wait on Sammy after school, and it was enough to make him smile as he closed his eyes.

 _Click._


End file.
